


Out of the Ashes

by rowofstars



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anti Zelena, Anxiety, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Post-Season 5A, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-Canon Compliant, Sexual Content, Therapy, not Zelena friendly, post-Dark One Rumple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-15 02:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11221071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: After the events of season 5A, Rumplestiltskin is no longer the Dark One. As he struggles with the anxiety and PTSD left behind by Zelena's cruelties and centuries of a dark curse, Belle is by his side. But their relationship is tenuous, and as much she tries to support Rumple, there are issues of her own she has to deal with. Will therapy, time, and True Love be enough to hold them together?





	1. To Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as my Rumbelle PTSD fic. This is AU from season 5A on where Rumple never took back the Dark Curse, Dark Swan is still a thing but like actually possibly interesting, no Dark One Hook, no Underworld (at this point), but Camelot still happened. This is something that came up in a discussion thread in a Rumple meta, where someone pointed out that we haven’t seen Rumple spin since season 3. While this is probably the show being bad about continuity, I’ve decided that he has a strong aversion to spinning as a result of Zelena’s abuse.
> 
> This fic will explore a lot of mental illness, some of which I have dealt with myself, and will include references to and discussion of abuse, sexual abuse, death, and grief. The character tags might expand, but the ones listed are ones that will appear in actual speaking parts. I promise to tag as much as I can think of and to include warnings in the notes at the top of each chapter.

Belle awoke with a start, her arms coming up to cover her face as she gasped. It took her a moment to come back to herself as the dream faded away. It wasn’t the worst one, the one where they didn’t make it in time and the darkness overwhelmed Rumplestiltskin and violently tore its way through Storybrooke, but it was bad enough. Some of them weren’t even nightmares really, just memories. Memories like being in a small cell with high concrete walls, memories of being alone and afraid, the cold water beating her arms with its harsh spray as she tried to protect her face. Or, like tonight, watching her husband fade away and be replaced with a darkness whose evil she hadn’t really comprehended before. It was deep and eternal, a seething hunger as dangerous as it was seductive. 

She shivered and rolled over, stretching her hand into empty space on the other side of the bed. She ran her hand over the wrinkles in the soft cotton, left behind by her husband's body, and sighed. The sheets were cool which meant he’d been gone for some time.

Sitting up, she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was just after one in the morning. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she frowned and ran her hands through her bedraggled hair, counting how many hours it had been since she’d coaxed him upstairs and into bed. He’d slept barely three hours, if he had slept at all, and she doubted very much that he had. It was always one thing or another, the restlessness, the nightmares, or the insomnia, that drove him from their bed.

That was how it had been since he’d escaped Zelena. It was even worse now that he was no longer the Dark One, curseless and back to the man he had once been, or at least some version of him. There was a gentle shyness about him most of the time, but it came tempered with hints of his former darkness, moments of quick anger and aloofness that concerned more than frightened her.

The witch was more than dead this time, her soul rent by some magic crystal, never to be seen again. Or so they hoped anyway. Magic wasn’t supposed to be able to bring back the dead, but in Belle’s in experience, that rule had some definite loopholes. She prayed Zelena hadn’t found any and wouldn’t show up on their doorstep one day, looking to make everyone her playthings again.

If Rumplestiltskin had his way, the end would have been even messier. The thought made her shudder, but she understood, in a way. She hadn’t wanted to, but after being held captive by Regina both in the Enchanted Forest, and again in this realm, for twenty-eight years she still couldn’t fully remember, she could understand the desire. There was a desperate need to know that person couldn’t hurt you anymore, and if that meant they were dead, banished, or utterly destroyed, then so be it. 

Despite everything that had happened, she could never bring herself to wish that on Regina. That was especially true after seeing the effort she had put into changing and becoming a better person, putting others ahead of herself, and helping Emma deal with the effects of the Dark Curse. It wasn’t so much a reconciliation as it was just moving on, putting the past in the past for the sake of having a future where everyone was at least civil. Most of them were family after all, and that had come to mean something.

With another sigh, she got up, picked up her robe from where it lay draped over the foot of the bed, and wiggled her feet into her slippers. She slipped the robe on over her nightgown and quietly made her way into the hall and down the stairs. 

On the good nights, they would go to bed together, pushing past the lingering awkwardness of their new situation with small smiles and tentative hands. Later, she might wake up alone and go searching, only to find him asleep in his favorite chair in the study. She would gently wake him and guide him back to bed, fondly recalling the few times she caught him sleeping in the Dark Castle. He always looked at her like it had been years since he’d last seen her, like she was the best possible things his eyes could have beheld in that moment. Those nights made her smile.

On the bad nights, neither of them slept well. It would start with him staring at the ceiling, sometimes pretending to sleep in case she was awake too. Then he would get up and pace the hall, eventually going downstairs. Occasionally, she would hear him pacing down there as well, the thump of his cane on the wood floors somehow comforting. He rarely woke screaming or tearing at the bed sheets, thankfully. There had been a few nights in the last couple of months where neither of them got any sleep, where he startled awake in a cold sweat, the blankets twisted around his legs, shrieking and thrashing. She suspected that just because he had quieter dreams, didn’t mean they were any less terrifying.

At some point, he would tire of pacing and go down to his little workshop in the basement, the Storybrooke version of his former laboratory. Those were the worst nights. She wasn’t sure how to be around him when he was in those darker, brooding moods. His eyes would be cold and distant, too much like when they had first met, when she was uncertain if he was going to turn her into a toad for forgetting to serve biscuits with the tea. On those nights she would wait until she was sure he was settled, and then make her way around the side of the house on the little stone path, just to see if he was all right. Usually she’d find him reading some old tome, never turning the pages, just staring, or sitting on the bench of his spinning wheel, hands folded in his lap.

Tonight Belle was determined to do more.

Pulling the robe tighter around her, she moved through the kitchen to the short hallway at the back of the house. She paused in front of the basement door, noticing it was cracked open, the faint light from below shining a thin line on the floor between her fluffy slippers. Her tongue flicked over her lips nervously, and she let out a shaky breath, reminding herself to do the brave thing.

 _And bravery will follow_ , she thought, and carefully pushed open the door.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Rumplestiltskin stood in the basement, in his dark blue pajamas and brown leather slippers, staring at his spinning wheel. He reached out a tentative hand, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the tapered length of one wooden spoke, lingering at the bead that went around the middle. But then he snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned, clenching it into a fist against his chest. His heart pounded behind his ribs, his whole body shuddering with a rush of fear as sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

Images flashed through his mind. The tiny cottage where it was just Bae and him. The castle where he spent so many centuries, building his knowledge and reputation. Gold falling endlessly from the spindle, coiling on the floor, and surrounding his feet. The cacophony of memories was confusing and too fast for him to focus on any one event. 

He remembered it all so vividly, the gentle creak as the wheel turned, the light squeak of the spindle when it needed oil and metal rubbed against wood. He could still feel the soft slip of the thread and the rough scrape of straw as they passed through his fingers. He had always done his best thinking at the wheel. It had helped to occupy him during the sleepless hours between deals and schemes, all those years he was alone. The gold he made with it, though excessive, was certainly useful as payment or bribes. The best memories were the nights spent listening to Belle as she read aloud from one of the numerous books in her library, her voice sweet and soft, complementing the quiet rhythm of his spinning. Those had never failed to make him smile, even when he’d been cursed.

Mr. Gold would sometimes stand in the back of his shop, looking at the large, old spinning wheel. There was a vague memory of a blue eyed woman and a brown eyed boy, a comforting warmth flowing through him when he touched the wood. He didn’t understand why he kept it, only that the thought of parting with it made it hard to breathe. It was where it was supposed to be, where he needed it to be. It was one of his precious things.

Zelena had taken all that away.

Sometimes Rumple felt like he’d spent centuries in that cage, with nothing but the wheel to pass the time between her cruelties. He immersed himself in memory, talking to himself as though he were talking to his son or to Belle, instructing no one on how to keep tension on the line, how to adjust the speed of the wheel to obtain the desired thickness. Eventually, he’d given it up, preferring to curl into as small of a space as possible and stare at it. He tried so many times to cast a simple spell, just a little flame beneath it. The dagger wouldn’t allow it though, so he would turn away, trying to ignore the way it sat there taunting him from the corner of his little prison. All the while the voices nagged, mocked, and tormented him. He imagined he could see their eyes, all the Dark Ones that came before, peering out from the shadows, finding him lacking and powerless compared to all of them. He was false and weak.

After he’d escaped, even after Zelena was believed to be dead, the first time, and he was in control of his dagger again, he’d been unable to look at a spinning wheel without feeling sick. Without his power it was even worse. In a panicked rage two weeks ago, he’d destroyed the smaller one he kept in the shop, dismantling it with his bare hands and bloodying his fingers before burning each piece to nothing. At the time, it had felt like the right thing to do, and it had given him a kind of peace if only for a moment. He had remained there, sitting on the floor of the shop, staring at the pile of ashes until he knew Belle would come looking for him if he didn’t get home soon. The pile disappeared in a plum of purple smoke, magicked away with a thought before the door to the shop had closed behind him.

Now, he was here, in one of the few places that still felt safe, with the only wheel he had left in this world. He hadn’t really touched it since he’d moved it here, but its presence had always been comforting. Tonight it wasn’t. Tonight it called out to him, reminding him of every failure. 

Tonight it was Zelena’s voice echoing in his ears, worse than anything he had heard from Milah. The witch always started out sharp and mean, cutting him down and preying on all his insecurities. Then when he was a sniveling mess, she would try to comfort and praise him. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead as he recalled the feeling of Zelena’s cold, thin fingers in his hair, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness as she cooed to him.

_That’s my good boy._

She was always too close, her perfume heavy and musky. Then her hand would twist in his hair and pull him back to bare his throat.

_Time to shave again._

Her breath was hot on his neck, her hair tickling his cheek in a way that made him itch as she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

_We must always look our best._

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Rumplestiltskin reached out an unsteady hand and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

 

* * *

 

  
Belle recoiled from the rush of intense heat as she came to the bottom of the basement stairs. She raised her arm to shield her face and winced at the flash of light the flames gave off. She sucked in a breath full of stinging, acrid smoke, and had to smother the cough that welled up in her chest with the sleeve of her robe. Turning, she stumbled back up the steps as quietly as she could, her heart pounding furiously. Her hands shook as she eased the door closed, knuckles white as she clutched the doorknob.

She had known Rumplestiltskin still had magic; breaking the curse didn’t erase hundreds of years of magical knowledge, but the cost was greater now that he wasn’t the Dark One, and he rarely used it, especially around her. For him to throw a fireball like that, to destroy the wheel in such a violent way, he must have been more upset than she first thought. He would probably be feeling the effects of such an exertion for the next day at least.

Belle warred with herself. She had to admit that after Rumple’s curse broke, she hated the thought of him using magic. It had been such a crutch for him before, the power and ease of it encouraging its use and speeding the corruption of his soul. Bracing against the doorway of the kitchen, she took a deep, calming breath. A large part of her wanted to rush back down the stairs and take him in her arms, to hold him and promise she’d help make it better. Another part of her was scared and unsure that she could fix anything. She hadn’t done all that well so far, despite her best efforts. He still wasn’t opening up, but then neither was she, not really. 

They loved each other, that was certain, but too much had happened in the last few months. She had betrayed him in the worst way, but he had betrayed her first. The sting of his lies, his manipulations, were still too fresh. Now that he had given up the curse, she was too stubborn to be anywhere but by his side. They were such different people than when they had first reunited, and there was so much between them left unsaid and broken. Every day she wondered if they were on the path to true reconciliation, to a future together, or if they were only together because they didn’t know how to be apart.

She waited for a few minutes in the hallway, her sense straining to hear Rumple coming up the stairs, but there was only the gentle creak of the old house and the sharp sound of a dog barking somewhere nearby. With a shaky sigh, she made her way back upstairs to their bedroom as quietly as she could. She left her robe and slippers in the same places she’d found them, knowing he’d probably wonder if they had moved too much, and slipped back into bed.

 

 

* * *

 

Rumplestiltskin sank to the floor, dropping his cane and breathing heavy. He coughed at the chalky, hot taste of the smoke, and winced at the throbbing pain building in his head, putting pressure on his temples. He knew before the flame burst to life in his hand that he would pay for using such strong magic, but the overkill of fireball verses wood was the only thing that made him feel better, more in control.

He’d done it.

He’d stopped the voices and the pain. Maybe it was just for tonight, but they were gone, and so was the reminder of the wheel. He hadn’t spun in months, and he wouldn’t for all the months in the future. That part of him was dead now, the tainted, gangrenous limb scorched into almost nothing. It was twisted and unwanted, just like the leg he’d shattered so many centuries ago. He used to wish he could cut it off entirely, pretend he lost it in the war and came home a hero instead of marked as a coward for life.

Rumple shifted back, leaning against one leg of his workbench, and shivered as the cold of the stone floor seeped through the fabric of his pajamas. He waited until the pounding in his head dulled a little, and the room wasn’t spinning, before pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. He leaned heavily on his cane, and gave the small pile of ashes one last sneering look before making his way to the stairs. He would clean it up tomorrow or the next day, once he’d recovered a bit. 

It took longer than usual to make it up the steep basement steps, the pulsing in his temples making him stop more than once. Every time he paused, the ache in his leg got worse. It was a constant double-edged sword he’d been dealing with since he woke up from having the Dark Curse pulled out of him. If he used the slightest bit of magic, he’d regret it for hours. If he tried to just get on as usual, the pain in his leg would eventually get the best of him, leaving him exhausted and grumpy.

While he didn’t want the curse back, there were moments where he missed the power it gave him, the relief from pain and from feeling like a lame, pathetic coward. Shuffling slowly through the kitchen and back to the main staircase, he paused at the bottom, looking up and thinking of Belle. His perfect wife had stood by him through everything. Even when she’d banished him across the town line, he knew that deep down she still cared, still loved him, still wanted him to be a better man.

It was easier these days to do that without the blackness weighing him down and whispering evil little things in his ear. Now there was another darkness inside him, one that made him weak and anxious, one that _witch_ put there when she tried so hard to break him. He thought he’d resisted her, thought his magic had made him strong enough. Maybe that was just another lie, maybe she had actually succeeded.

Rumplestiltskin rubbed his forehead and banished the dark thoughts. They would get him nowhere. It was best to put them out of mind as much as possible and just carry on. That was the way of things now. If he could do that enough, just pretend these things weren’t looming in his thoughts, in the shadows, maybe he could make himself be the man Belle deserved. He held tight to the railing and started to make his way up the stairs.

 

 

* * *

 

Belle lay in bed on her side, facing away from the door. She kept her eyes closed, but she was far from asleep, forcing herself to remain still and breathe slowly. Rumplestiltskin slid into bed and shifted closer, resting his hand on her hip, but not pulling her close. Maybe he didn’t want to wake her, but she desperately wanted him to cling to her when he so clearly needed it. And when maybe she needed it too.

She could feel how tense he was, his fingers flexing anxiously over her nightgown. He was warring with himself again, and probably in pain. There was the faint smell of smoke and burned things, the caustic scent clinging to his pajamas. Her nose wrinkled for a moment, but she managed to keep her breathing light and her eyes closed. She swallowed and shifted a little. His fingers stopped, and she waiting for him to say something, but he remained stiff and reticent. 

It seemed easier for him to get back to normal after Zelena had kept him prisoner than it was for him now. They knew she was gone for good this time, but Belle wondered if perhaps the reason he seemed to recover so quickly was the presence of the Dark Curse. Maybe it had given him a false strength that let him carry on even if he wasn’t really healed in his heart and mind. It made sense when she thought about how quickly they’d been intimate again afterwards despite the hints he’d given her about the horrible things Zelena had done to him. The evidence had lingered on his body, wounds inflicted by dark magic that hadn’t healed properly until after the curse had left him.

Perhaps Zelena had not allowed him to.

Belle fought the sick feeling in her gut. Even after everything they’d been through, even after the Apprentice had taken away the curse, after she’d sat by his side for so many days while he fought his way back to life, they didn’t really have their happy ending. How could they when it felt like there were still miles between them? Or when he hardly touched her. 

There were chaste kisses and quick hugs, but nothing more. There was a distance that had never been there before. Most nights it felt like he wasn’t really there with her, and if she touched him without warning, he would pull away and leave the room. It was easy to remember the last time they were intimate, how passionate and happy they were, and how she foolishly believed they could be like that forever. It killed her to think that maybe some part of him was lost to her forever, that she would never feel that sense of closeness and belonging with him again. Maybe he was even lost to himself.

Tears dribbled from the corners of her eyes, soaking into her pillow. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to breathe slowly until the urge to sob passed. After a while, she felt his hand slip away and his breathing go shallow. Opening her eyes just enough to see the clock, she saw it was almost three in the morning. She scooted closer to him, not touching her body to his, but near enough to feel his warmth, and sighed.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle starts forming a plan to help her husband, while also having unacknowledged issues of her own, and Rumple has an accident at the pawn shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to balance the darker, sadder parts of this chapter with a nice dinner and some minor fluff at the end. I already want to shove these two together and make them face their issues, but I know we aren't ready for that yet. I am suffering along with all of you. This chapter starts to get into a little bit of self-harm, but not in the traditional sense. I wanted to update earlier than this but RCIJ came first.
> 
> Warnings for blood, descriptions of a minor hand injury, and references to fake/cursed memories involving domestic violence in this chapter.

In the morning Belle awoke alone, again, and huffed in frustration. She needed to do something to move Rumplestiltskin forward, to move _them_ forward, but she wasn’t sure what that something was. They needed to talk, for starters. Talking about their days, talking about the random goings on in town, or reminiscing about the past wasn’t really talking, it was just filling the silence so it didn’t become unbearable. Communication meant saying some ugly, uncomfortable, _honest_ things, and she knew they would never manage that on their own.

Maybe they could talk to Dr. Hopper? Archie knew enough about what had happened to everyone to offer at least _some_ advice in most situations. He was a good listener, and he had a gentle way about him that put everyone at ease. If she talked to him, then perhaps together they could get Rumple to consider therapy. He needed to talk to someone if he wasn’t going to talk to her, and perhaps they could go together. Before the curse had broken, he'd gone to talk to Archie about Baelfire, so she was fairly certain he didn't hate the idea of therapy entirely. A neutral party might be the thing they both needed to get some perspective and finally break the rut they had fallen into.

Maybe then some of the things she needed to get out wouldn’t turn into a fight, or make her feel like she was kicking Rumple when he was down. Yes, he’d changed, a lot in fact, but that didn’t erase what he’d done before. Or what she’d done either. Therapy could mean a fresh start for both of them.

Resolved to her new plan, she pushed herself up and got out of bed.

As expected, her husband was nowhere to be found in the house, but there was a note on the kitchen counter. It was only a few words, telling her he’d awoke early and gone to the shop. There was nothing else, no loving sentiment, no promise to be home early to make up for it. She crumpled the paper up and threw it angrily at the trash can. Sometimes she wondered how Rumplestiltskin even felt about her. There were moments where he’d be so sweet and tender, but then he would do something like this, something that left her with a cold and distant feeling, like they were living miles apart.

Still frowning, she started to make herself some breakfast, but after getting out the eggs for an omelet, she stopped. She stared down at the eggs as they wobbled on the counter and sighed. There was a hollow, sick feeling in her stomach, a build up of nervous energy from constantly worrying about Rumple. Her appetite fading, she decided to make some tea. While the kettle was warming, her stomach bubbled and gurgled with the most wretched sound, so she made some buttered toast as well. The tea helped calm her, and gave her a comfortable, warm feeling, but all she could manage to eat was a few feeble bites of toast, before heading back upstairs to get dressed.

Before Belle left home, she dared to venture back down to the basement. She held her breath as she took the last step, swearing she could still feel the intense heat on her face despite the cold dampness of the space. Her eyes immediately settled on the circle of ashes where the large spinning wheel had once stood. Her eyes welled up as memories came flooding back to her of the Dark Castle and those first, fragile days when she had been so afraid but so curious, too.

The first time she had seen Rumplestiltskin use the wheel it was like he was a different person. He was calm and relaxed, his eyes intent on the motion of the wheel and his fingers. The creaking and whirring were oddly soothing in the quiet evening, complementing the occasional snap of the fire. After a long moment of her watching him and hoping he wouldn’t notice, he looked up and smiled slightly, just a curve of one corner of his mouth. It wasn’t sneering or sarcastic.

It felt like an exchange between friends, warm and quiet, and after that she slept in her own room on a bed that felt like a fluffy cloud instead of a dungeon floor. It may have been the moment where she knew there was more to him than the Dark One.

In a way, Belle felt like by destroying the wheel he had also destroyed a piece of them; it made her even more determined to help Rumple and fix things between them.

On a whim, she hurried back up the stairs to the short hallway off the kitchen. She opened the door to the small linen closet where they kept the cleaning supplies, and grabbed a dustpan and brush. Then she stopped in the kitchen to get a mason jar from a cabinet, and headed back down to the basement. Carefully, she brushed the remains of the spinning wheel into a pile and then scooped them up with the dustpan, using it to transfer them to the jar. When she was sure she had all of it, and maybe a little dirt from the floor too, just to be sure, she screwed on the lid.

Belle smiled sadly as she stood and brushed off her knees. It might seem silly, but if he could keep the broken pieces of a chipped cup, then she could keep the remains of a spinning wheel. She stashed the jar in the back of the cleaning closet behind a stack of towels, and hung up the dustpan and brush. As she stepped out of the house, she hoped the library wasn’t too busy today. She wasn’t feeling very social, and her heart definitely wasn’t going to be in her work, not with it being tied up in knots over the state of Rumplestiltskin and their relationship.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin rested his head in his hands, elbows on the counter, rubbing futility with his fingertips at the lingering pain in his temples. He knew he’d be paying for his little outburst, but he’d forgotten how annoying it was. The wheel was gone now, reduced to char and ashes in his basement by his own hand, just as the other one had been in his shop. He felt mixed about both, if he was being honest. He’d had the smaller wheel a long time, since he lived with Milah. It was the wheel he’d used to teach Baelfire how to spin. The larger wheel he'd obtained later, just before Bae fell through the portal. It would be expensive to replace in this world, but it had sentimental value as well. It was the wheel that sat in the great hall of the Dark Castle, turning and creaking while Belle sat near him on the sofa and read late into the night. Before that it was his only solace through the decades he’d spent alone. But it was also too much of a reminder.

He moved to the front door and flipped the sign from open to closed, then made his way to the back room of the shop. His leg was killing him so he yanked open a drawer on his desk and took out a bottle of pills. He shook out two into his palm and tossed them in his mouth, washing them down with the remains of a cup of tea from earlier in the day. He grimaced at the cold, flat taste and shuffled to the small sink to rinse out the mug and his mouth. 

Dr. Whale had prescribed the medication for him years ago, when he was still Mr. Gold, and did so again after he’d awakened from losing his curse. The pain had been especially bad then, rushing back to him full force after centuries of being held at bay by magic. Even under the original curse it hadn't felt as bad. Perhaps that had been part of the _comfort_ Regina had allowed him as part of their deal. Enough that he was functional and not in constant agony, but not so much that he didn't have a daily reminder of a vague memory of a horrible accident that was all his fault.

While he felt better in some respects, without the curse weighing on his soul, the loss of power had been startling. He still had magic, but it was weaker and so much more taxing on his body to use. Regina had complained about pain a few times, headaches and the like when he’d pushed her or when she’d tried a spell that was above her level. He had never given it much mind at the time, but it was clear now. The curse alleviated all of the side effects for the low, low price of his mortal soul.

Rumple let out a humourless snort and set the cup down on the workbench. He moved to take his overcoat from the rack by the back door, but caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and paused. It was a large floor mirror with a thick wood frame, propped up against the wall by the cot. He’d forgotten that Henry had helped him moved it a few days ago so he could fix a split in the wood at the bottom corner.

Against his better judgement he turned and stood there, staring at his reflection.

He looked and felt older. Since being freed from the Dark Curse, his hair, which had been streaked with silver for centuries, was graying even more. It was nearly all silver now and it brought out the lines on his face. His middle was, well, _fat_. He'd always been slight and frail before, his skin sometimes hanging off his bones when times in the village were lean. He would always go without so Baelfire didn't. Since the original curse had broken, he'd steadily gained weight. At first it was welcome, and for the first time he'd been able to enjoy eating, enjoy having as much as he wanted of everything.

Now, all he saw was a useless, cowardly, middle aged man who had nothing to offer his beautiful, young wife. He wasn't powerful or strong anymore, and he’d never been handsome. His curse was gone and their future with it. They were merely existing now, trapped in limbo and unable to move forward, unable to have their happy ending. He was still a villain in many people’s minds anyway. He’d done so many horrible things that even without the curse, even without being the Dark One, he wasn’t sure he deserved a happy ending.

But Belle? She deserved one, and she deserved someone better.

She deserved _more_.

Someone brave. Someone young. Someone handsome. Someone worthy. 

Tears blurred his sight and he wobbled. His head spun, making him unsteady even as he gripped his cane harder and ground it into the floor. He stared at his reflection and watched in horror as it morphed into his cursed self, the sickly green scales and narrow eyes flooding his vision. The image sneered at him with its blackened teeth, taunting him even as it said nothing, reminding him of what he really was on the inside. Ugly, twisted, and unlovable.

The first thing Rumplestiltskin registered was the sharp pain in his hand. His knuckles throbbed, but there was a deeper, stabbing sensation beneath it. He looked down in confusion, watching as a rivulet of blood trickled from between the joints of his index and middle finger. It moved down over his skin, dripping off his fingernail to the floor. It splattered lightly, stretching in every direction like a star, and he frowned. 

_Blood._

_Why am I bleeding?_

He looked up and saw his reflection again, this time his real self, suited and uncursed, but in pieces. Harsh lines slashed through the image, a piece of his cheek was missing, and he blinked several times before he realized that it was because the mirror was broken. It took another few seconds before he put two and two together and understood that he’d shattered it with his bare hand. He’d punched it squarely in the center, hard enough that he’d cut himself and was now bleeding steadily.

He flexed his hand and winced, another rivulet of blood running down his index finger. But behind the pain was something else, something that radiated, rippling in waves through his hand and into his body. His eyes closed and he took a slow, steady breath. It felt like the world was simultaneously crisper and clearer, but also a little fuzzy at the edges, like he’d had too much wine. The corner of his mouth twitched. The last time he could say he’d had too much drink had been ages ago.

Rumple shook his head and the odd, almost euphoric, sensation slipped away. He hissed as he raised his hand, and pulled his handkerchief out of his lapel pocket. He wrapped it around his knuckles and squeezed the ends in his fist, the flexing of his hand sharper and more painful than just a moment ago. The cuts weren’t deep, but there were several of them. He didn’t think he needed stitches or anything serious, but he’d need to make sure Belle didn’t see what he’d done until he had time to bandage it. Once the headache wore off, he could probably heal it most of the way with a spell. And pay for that healing by feeling even worse afterwards.

Sighing, he limped towards the back door and stepped out of the shop, leaving the mirror and the mess for tomorrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Belle stepped inside the pink Victorian and glanced at the clock above the table in the entryway. It would be at least two hours before Rumplestiltskin would be home, if he locked up the shop at the usual time. She moved down the hallway, stopping at the door to the basement, her hand hesitating over the knob. After a quick glance down the hall at the door, she pulled it open. The smell of burned things lingered in the air and she took a deep breath, letting the scent tickle her brain, plucking out thoughts of dimly lit bars and the burn of cheap alcohol. 

The memories were both hers and not hers, real enough to be triggered by smell and sound, but fracturing, like her reflection in a broken mirror, when she tried to dig deeper. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever sort out where the lines were, between Lacey and Belle, the missing year in the Enchanted Forest, the years in a tiny basement cell. Maybe none of them ever would.

“And maybe it doesn’t matter,” she muttered, closing the basement door. She wanted to believe it didn’t, anyway.

With a sigh, Belle moved into the kitchen and started making dinner. There weren't many recipes that she could make well, unless it involved flour, sugar, and baking, but putting a roast and some vegetables in the oven was something she could manage without setting the house on fire. A sly smile curved her lips as she recalled the last time she’d had an incident in the kitchen. She was quite partial to the grilled cheese sandwiches that Ruby made at the diner. She had watched Ruby made them on the grill in the kitchen, licking her lips as the cheese melted into a delicious, gooey layer between those buttery crisp toasts. How hard could it be to make one herself?

Apparently a lot harder than it was to accidentally set an oven mitt on fire.

She pulled all the ingredients out of the fridge and lined them up on the counter. While the oven heated, she chopped the vegetables and dropped them in a roasting pan by the handful. After that was done she measure out some of the dry herbs they kept in bottles and a few other spices, mixing it all in a small dish. She started sprinkling it over the meat but when she shook the little dish side-to-side, a big clump of spices came out and landed all in the same spot. She panicked, frustrated that she’d ruined dinner, and tried to brush some of it off. It was sticky and wet from the raw meat so she did her best to spread it around evenly. The end result was a lump of meat encrusted in herbs and spices.

It smelled amazing.

Tilting her head, Belle decided to just go with it. If food smelled good it usually tasted good. The oven beeped its readiness, so she spread the rest of the mix around on the vegetables, set the roast on top, and shoved it all in the oven. It would take a while to be done enough to eat, but in the meantime she could throw together a quick salad as a starter. Maybe she could ease Rumple into talking about things, and subtly bring up her idea to talk to Archie. Then she might have an idea of how much resistance she’d encounter.

Sighing, she looked down and noticed smears of red on her hand. Blood from the beef, she assumed, so she moved to the sink to wash it off. A deep red mixed with the water and soap, leaving it all tinged pink and smelling slightly of metal. She watched it whirl around, when a flash of memory startled her.

She was bent low over a grungy bathroom sink. There were rust stains around the drain and the water sputtered from the pipes, spraying unevenly. Blood swirled around the white porcelain and she frowned. Where had it come from?

 _Father_.

She gasped.

He’d caught her with a boy and the next thing she knew the back of his hand had struck her cheek and she could taste blood. She spit and a blob of red mixed with saliva landed with a sickening splat. The water caught at the edges of it, but it was too sticky to wash down by itself. She had to scrub at it with her fingers to make it go away. Sniffling, she looked up and saw her reflection in a dusty mirror. Her hair was piled up on her head with a clip, her shirt was low cut, and her bra strap stuck out on her left shoulder. Her lip was swollen and her makeup had run, leaving her eyes looking dark and angry.

Belle blinked and the image went away, replaced with the small window over the kitchen sink that looked out into the garden. She stood there for a long moment, feeling her bottom lip throb with an injury that wasn’t there, smelling the stale air of a small house. The warm water ran over her hands as she tried to piece together what she’d experienced. There was no such incident in her past. Despite her shaky relationship with her father, he had never hit her, though he had not made the best choices or listened to what she really wanted. As she was drying her hands off, she realized the memory wasn’t really hers. 

It was _Lacey’s._

__

Lacey’s past was a mishmash of fights with her father, grief over her mother’s death, and a string of nights in a bar with nameless faces. Sometimes things would float to the surface in a more concrete way, but it was mostly impressions or feelings, like she’d had with the smell of the basement. Aside from a few days after everyone had left for Neverland, when being Lacey was only a few days ago, Belle had never had a flashback like that. She’d never fully recalled any one thing about Lacey, and it bothered her that it had happened now. That was more than two years in the past, depending on how long they’d really spent in the Enchanted Forest and Camelot, which was something no one had fully sorted out yet. It didn’t make any sense why she’d have such a strong reaction now.

Belle checked on the roast, smiling at how good it smelled. She pushed the memory and thoughts of Lacey to the back of her mind, and started cleaning up the kitchen.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Rumplestiltskin winced as he pulled on his coat sleeve. His hand was tender, the cuts stinging as every movement pulled open the skin and caused more blood and fluid to ooze out. The handkerchief he’d wrapped around it was damp and sticking as well. He reminded himself to hide the injury from Belle until he could clean and bandage it. There were a million little things he could cut himself on in the shop; he was certain he could come up with something believable to tell her.

He hung his coat on one of the hooks and turned, catching the scent of something. He inhaled deeply and smiled. The house smelled delicious, and there was a light, musical humming coming from down the hallway. He knew it was Belle and the scene pulled at his heart. His home felt warm and inviting, and combined with the wonderful smell of supper cooking and Belle’s sweet voice, he was as near to heaven as he’d been in a long time.

Rumple made his way to the stairs, but stopped when he heard the sharp click of heels on the wood floor. Belle was coming towards him, smiling.

“Hey,” she said, folding her hands at her waist, her fingers clasping at each other.

He swallowed and tried to hide his hand by holding his cane close to his body. She seemed nervous and he wondered if it was his presence that caused it or something else. “Hey.”

She bit at her lip, and looked away for a second. “Did you, um, have a nice day?”

Rumple shrugged. “I suppose,” he lied. He wasn’t about to tell her that he had a horrible day filled with pain and stupidity. He glanced down the hall towards the kitchen. “The house smells good.”

Belle smiled again, widely. “Yeah, it does. I, uh, made a roast.”

His eyebrows lifted and his lips curved a bit. “Well, it seems much more successful than your attempt at grilled cheese.”

“Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes, but still smiling. “I think this may have happened more by accident than anything. Things sort of - _fell_ into place, I guess.”

He grinned a little at that, dropping his head. He looked up at her through his lashes and fringe of hair, remembering a specific time she had been the the thing that fell. “The best things often do.”

She blushed a little, and he suspected she had been thinking the same thing, then she turned and started down the hall. “It should be ready in another hour or so.”

He nodded and exhaled. If she stayed in the kitchen a few minutes, he could get upstairs and take care of his hand. He watched her go and then started up the steps again, but he’d only made it to the first landing before he heard the clomp of her shoes again. He gritted his teeth as a stab of pain shot through his hand and made him flex his fingers around the handle of his cane.

“Where are you - oh,” Belle gasped, looking down at the floor. “Rumple, what - is this _blood?_ ”

Rumple closed his eyes for a moment and then looked down at her. She was bent over something on the floor and he lifted his hand to see that the blood had oozed out of the cloth and run down his hand to drip on the floor.

Belle straightened and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “What happened? Are you -?” She stepped closer to the stairs and peered at him through the railing. “You’re bleeding!”

“No,” he protested. “N-no, I just -”

Her brow furrowed as she moved around to the foot of the stairs. She came up to his level and reached for his injured hand, and he winced and pulled his hand to his chest, where the blood-soaked handkerchief stain his shirt and tie. 

“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to keep her from seeing his battered hand. 

She looked up at him, her face tight with concern. “It’s _not nothing_ , Rumple,” she said, her voice insistent but soft. “Let me help you, _please?_ ”

Rumple visibly relaxed, and let her peel his hand away from his chest. She barely bit back a gasp once she saw how the blood had saturated the cloth, leaving it sticky and damp. 

“How did this happen?” she asked, lifting the matted handkerchief a little until he hissed in pain.

Her eyes lifted and met his, and he gave her a sheepish shrug. “I broke a mirror.”

Her bottom lip pushed out a bit in a small, sympathetic pout. “Let’s go upstairs and get this cleaned up, all right?”

Rumplestiltskin nodded, and a few minutes later he found himself sitting on little stool from Belle’s vanity while she rummages in the bathroom cabinet for the first aid ointment she insisted was there. It was an antique he’d brought home from his shop after she moved in, but originally it had been in her room in the Dark Castle. Little things like that had overjoyed her in the early days after the first curse broke, and even now they still cheered her, reminded her of better times. She gave small cheer and held up the tube she was searching for, and moved to sit on the toilet lid across from him.

“This reminds me I need to declutter that cupboard,” she said. It was a completely mundane comment, but she no longer knew how to say the words that needed saying. Her husband had come home injured and tried to hide it from her, and that set off all sorts of alarm bells. He wasn’t the Dark One anymore, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of lying or doing deceitful things. She didn’t want to think that way, but there it was. Old fears died hard, she supposed.

Rumple sucked in a breath as she dabbed at his wound with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. It was a small gash, but deep and in a rather tender place, just between the knuckles of his middle and index finger. She frowned and dropped the cotton ball in the little trash bin, then reached for the tube of antibiotic ointment.

“Was it a mirror in your shop?” she asked, squeezing some of the ointment onto his hand.

He blinked and looked up. “What?”

“The mirror you broke,” she said, starting to unroll some gauze. Her eyes flicked to his face and then back to what she was doing. “Was it one in your shop?”

“Oh, yes.” He shifted on the stool, his hand and arm tensing like he wanted to pull away. “I, um, I knocked it over.”

Belle made a quiet _ah_ sound and started wrapping the gauze over his hand, along the row of knuckles, and then down between his fingers. She continued in a sort of figure eight pattern, making sure to cover the wound completely.

“How did it happen then?”

Rumple frowned. “How did what happen?”

“Your, uh, your cut,” she said. She tucked in the end of the gauze and put a piece of tape over it, catching herself in the middle of wishing that he could just heal it with magic. “Was it when you were cleaning up the glass or -?”

“Yes.” His replied was very curt, and she glanced up. “Yes, it - it just caught me wrong is all,” he added.

She sighed. “Rumple -”

“Just leave it alone,” he pleaded, chin trembling. “Please, Belle.”

Belle pressed her lips together and nodded. She could feel him withdrawing as he had so many times before, always she would press him to talk about something, and always when he needed to get it out the most. It was maddening, yet understandable. Something had happened in his shop today, but he wasn’t willing or able to tell her. 

She cupped his cheek and brushed her thumb over the bit of scruff that had grown in the last day. His face pushed against her palm as a tear rolled free from his eye, and she felt her own eyes start to well up. “It’s all right, it’s all fixed now.”

A loud beep sounded from downstairs, signalling that the roast was done. She put on a smile and stood up. “How about some dinner then?”

Rumple looked up at her and gave her a shaky smile in return. “You can, uh, go on downstairs. I’ll - clean up.” He look down at his blood streaked shirt, and then up at her.

Belle tilted her head and reached out her hand to help pull him to his feet. It would be a rough few days using his cane until his hand healed. “Okay.”

She left him to change, and went to check on dinner, smiling as she pulled out the roasting pan. Everything _looked_ perfect, and as she set the table an uneasy hollow feeling settled in her gut. That was the thing, wasn’t it? Everything looked perfect. She had Rumple, he was awake and alive, his heart cleansed by the Sorcerer’s Hat, and they were together.

But it wasn’t perfect and they weren’t really together.

Rumplestiltskin entered the dining room, limping more than usual as he tried not to lean too hard on his cane and his injured hand. He had on a fresh shirt, a deep blue with a paisley pattern that she recalled from so long ago. Tonight felt almost the same as then. Rumple was pulling away, trying to hide even when it seemed he was desperate for help, and she insisted that she had to stay, had to help him. Still, it pulled at something in her heart to see him in a colorful, patterned shirt again. She missed that little bit of vibrancy and flamboyance, those things that reminded her of their early days. Her chest ached as she smiled and moved around the table to help pull out his chair.

He reached for her, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “This looks amazing, Belle.”

She nodded and swallowed, feeling him pull a little on her arm. She shuffled closer and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek, his nose brushing her skin as he pulled back. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and when she opened them he was gazing at her intently, as though he was searching for something. She squeezed his hand in return, and they separated, sitting down to eat.

Belle sliced into the roast, her mouth watering as she inhaled the scent of the herbs. The potatoes and carrots were perfect, soft enough to eat but not mushy, and the meat was a perfect medium, pink and juicy in the middle. She glanced at Rumple before stabbing one of the slices with the serving fork, and his eyes were wide. She gave them each a small portion of the salad, using the awkwardly large tongs to put it into bowls, while he plated up meat, potatoes, and vegetables. For a while there was nothing but an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the click and scrap of their forks and knives against the fine china.

It occurred to Rumplestiltskin that this was something he’d been missing from life for some time, maybe always. Hearth, home, and comfort. Even if Belle didn’t love him the way she used to, or at all anymore, she still tended his wounds and made a lovely dinner, and that had to mean she still cared. He didn’t dare to hope for more beyond that, but it comforted him to know they could have something, however small.

Rumplestiltskin sighed contentedly and smiled. “This is delicious, Belle.”

Belle blushed and ducked her head. “It’s just a roast.”

He reached out without thinking and put his hand over hers. “It isn’t,” he said. When he went to pull his hand away, she turned hers over and wrapped her fingers around his, keeping him in place. He felt his face flush and unconsciously he squeezed his injured hand just a little. The pain grounded him and kept his thoughts from running rampant.

“It - it means a lot,” he managed, and she smiled. Then he pulled his hand back and shifted in the chair. “So, how was the library today?”

Belle shrugged, a little sad that whatever moment they’d had was over. He rarely touched her first anymore or touched her at all in any kind of friendly or intimate way and he had done so twice this evening. She missed the ease with which they used to interact, the lingering touches and heated looks that reminded her of the depth of his feelings. He was harder to read now and closed off, but she would take these small victories one dinner at a time if she had to.

“It was - a bit slow, actually,” she finally said. “School starts next week, and I think the children are preoccupied.” Rumple hummed and nodded, and she sighed. “Henry came by, though.”

“Oh?” Rumple glanced at her before shoving a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. He had gotten to see more of his grandson recently, which was both a blessing and a constant reminder of how he’d lost his son.

She smiled. “He was bringing by flyers for the Harvest Days thing David and Snow want to start. It’s mostly for the folks from Camelot, so they can feel a bit more at home, but it will be nice to have something to celebrate.”

Rumple put his fork down and sat back in his chair. “I always liked fall. Cooler weather, the changing leaves, it feels -” He made a motion with his hand and frowned, the headache from earlier lingered in his temples and made it hard to think.

“Cozy?” Belle offered with a little grin.

He smiled and nodded. “Aye.”

They lapsed into silence until Belle finally started to clear the table. Rumple moved to help her, but she shooed him and his bandaged hand to the living room with orders to find a movie or something to watch. She joined him a few minutes later, saddened to find him in one of the wing back chairs and not on the sofa where they could share space.

He must have picked up on her disappointment, because he fidgeted in the chair before he asked, “Did you, uh, want me to sit there instead?”

“Only if you want to,” she replied, taking a seat at one end of the couch.

He pushed himself to his feet and moved the short distance to sit down near her, but not touching. The same as always. The movie ended up being quite good, an interesting murder mystery set in the 1920s. Rumple told her there was an entire series of books and short stories based on the same characters and the way her eyes had lit up made him laugh. It was the highpoint of her evening, and a part of her was finally coming to terms with how pathetic that was.

Just after the opening title, she slipped her shoes off and tucked her feet up on the sofa, and then cautiously stretched her legs out. When her feet touched his thigh, he almost jumped, but after a moment he visibly relaxed. Midway through the show, Belle realized Rumple’s hand had made its way to rest on her leg, and she smiled at the innocent, comforting contact. His thumb was idly rubbing back and forth over the bone on the outside of her ankle, and she steeled herself against any reaction that might make him notice what he was doing and stop. It would have to do for now.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” Belle said some time later as the credits rolled on the screen.

Rumple nodded and pushed to his feet with his cane. He winced at the pain in his hand as he used it to balance. “Goodnight.”

She bit her lip. “You’re not -?” She gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, pointing towards the stairs.

He shook his head slightly and gave her a tight smile, squeezing his hand around the handle of his cane. The zing of pain that went through his hand and into his arm distracted him from the revived throb in his skull. “I need to, uh, read over some things in the study.”

She stood there staring at him for a long moment, wondering if what he said was true, what he might really be doing, or if he’d go down to the basement and notice it was cleaned up. He looked tired and she wanted to push him a little more and urge him to come upstairs with her, but the way he was standing made it feel like there were miles between them.

“All right then,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Good night, Rumple.”

Belle heard him make his way into the hall as she reached the stop of the stairs. She glanced down and saw him leaning against the wall to take the pressure off his hand. He disappeared around the corner and she sighed, continuing on to their bedroom. She went through the motions of changing and washing her face, and climbed into bed only to stare up at the ceiling, not feeling the least bit tired. 

_It’s all right, it’s all fixed now._

Her earlier words floated back into her mind, but it wasn’t fixed, none of it was. Not by a longshot. She felt as though they were reaching a critical stage, that something would have to give between her and Rumple soon, and she was more determined than ever to make them true.


End file.
